Paradise and Other Stories

by Khushwant Singh

  ‘Bas, bas, Zora. You don’t have to flatter me. We are friends,’ replied the Minister.

  ‘Oh, but I’m not paying lip service; I mean every word of it. Ask any Indian in any walk of life and they’ll say the same. You are the pride of India and its hope for the future.’

  ‘Enough of this,’ retorted the Minister. ‘I must get home. My wife has arranged a birthday party for me.’

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot my humble birthday gift,’ said Zora feigning forgetfulness. He took the little red velvet box out of his pocket and gently pulled out the platinum and blue star-sapphire ring. ‘Please let me have the honour of slipping it on your finger,’ he said as he took one of the Minister’s hands in his. Three fingers had rings on them. He slipped it on the fourth. It outshone all the other rings.

  ‘Zora, this must have cost you a fortune,’ said the Minister as he admired the new ring on his hand.

  ‘Sir, nothing is good enough for you. It will remind you of your humble servant when he is no longer serving you. I know you will keep a benign eye on me after I retire in a few months’ time.’

  ‘Zora, the nation needs men like you. I will see to it that you continue to serve the country as long as you can.’

  Three months later, Zora retired from service. A month after that, he was nominated member of the Rajya Sabha.

  ‘What will this fellow do in Parliament?’ scoffed his detractors.

  They were in for a surprise.

  Zora’s maiden speech was a masterly performance, humility peppered with choice quotations from the scriptures—Hindu, Muslim, Christian and Sikh. He lauded the virtues of truth, honesty and righteous living. He paid fulsome compliments to his Minister and assured the members of the House that as long as there were men of his stature, ability and integrity, nothing would go wrong with India. He ended his stirring oration with a full-throated cry, ‘Mera Bharat Mahaan; Jai Hind!’ The members rose together to applaud him. One after another they came to shake his hand.

  While he was still being felicitated by fellow members, a Parliamentary orderly in a white, starched turban came and handed him a small note. The Minister wanted to see him in his chamber. Zora followed the orderly through the corridors of Parliament House and was ushered into the Minister’s office. The Minister stood up and took both Zora’s hands in his. ‘Shaabaash, well done! I heard everything you said. I am proud of you.’

  ‘Sir, whatever I am, it is due to your kindness. Who else would have cared about an insignificant creature like me?’

  The Minister ordered coffee. ‘Zora, have you applied to the Parliament for a house? You are entitled to one, you know.’

  ‘Sir, what will I do with another house? I have a few of my own.’

  ‘All said and done, you are a simple-minded Sardar. Kaam aayega—it will come in handy. You don’t have to live in it. Don’t ask for one of those flats where the other MPs live. There are nice bungalows with large gardens away from the main road. The best are along two roads facing the India International Centre. The roads end with some school playgrounds. When the schools are closed there is no one around apart from the residents of those bungalows. Ask for one at the end of the road. I will make sure you get what you ask for. Zoraji, Kaam aayega,’ he repeated.

  It dawned on Zora what the Minister meant. ‘Yes sir, I will go and apply for one right away.’

  Zora’s speech was covered on Doordarshan news. The next morning, his photographs were on the front page of every paper. One carried the caption ‘Builder of buildings becomes builder of the nation’.

  A new chapter began in Zora’s life. With age his appetite for sex declined and his religious fervour increased. His weekly visits to Deepo became fortnightly, then monthly and then once every few months. Deepo never made any demands on him but complied with his wishes when he came to see her. There were times when he made no move to share her creaking charpai with her but just spent a few minutes talking to her. When Deepo was relieved from her job and told to vacate the government quarters, Zora gave her a room in his servants’ quarters and the job of looking after his wife who had developed acute arthritis and had trouble walking. Deepo’s sons had found jobs, one as an electrician, the other as a car mechanic, and shared a rented room in the suburbs.

  Deepo fitted very well into Zora’s household. She spent most of the day with Eeshran, helped her bathe and dress, combed her hair and pressed her legs when she was tired. She accompanied her master and mistress to the gurdwara every morning. While Zora went to play his round of golf, reduced now from eighteen holes to nine, the two women listened to keertan till he came to pick them up. When Parliament was in session Zora spent his mornings listening to questions and answers and often stayed on for coffee and snacks with MPs of both Houses in the Central Hall. He was nominated to several Parliamentary committees and made chairman of a couple of public corporations which carried the rank of Cabinet Minister, which in turn gave him the privilege of sporting a red light on the roof of his car. He celebrated his elevation to the House of Elders by buying a new car with a factory-fitted air-conditioner and sound system. At his request he was given the number plate he desired: DLH 1000. His friends gave him a new title, Zora Singh Hazaria, Commander of One Thousand.

  Zora had no time for introspection. He knew full well that it would only make him unhappy without doing him any good. He had made money, lots of it on the side. So had all the other engineers. He had kept his Minister securely on his side by funding him and providing him with women. Their close association had earned handsome dividends for both. The Minister was ten years younger than him, and his lust for naya maal, fresh meat as he called it in English, had not abated. Zora provided him a safe place—his Parliamentary bungalow—to savour the joys of young female flesh for which Zora paid in cash. Zora, on his part, had frequently cheated on his wife, but had also taken good care of her and his family. There was little point in reflecting on his shortcomings and making himself miserable. This was the way of the world—Zora was a man of the world destined to fulfil his life’s ambitions: wealth, respectability and honour. Whenever his conscience disturbed him he turned to prayer. The last thing he did before turning in for the night was to recite ardaas, naming the ten gurus, their ‘living’ emblem, the Granth Sahib, and asking them to forgive him for any sins he may have committed. He slept the sleep of the Just.

  One afternoon, the Minister’s private secretary rang Zora up to say that his boss wanted to speak to him, and put him on the line.

  ‘Zora Singh at your service, sir. It must be Eid today—I will look out for the new moon!’

  The Minister ignored the flattery and came to the point. ‘Zoraji, will you be at home this evening? I have something important to discuss with you. Around 7 p.m.?’

  ‘Sir, your wish is my command. It always has been, and will be to the end of my days. It will be an honour to have you step into my home. It has been a long time.’

  Zora informed his wife and told her to have the sitting room carpets hoovered, put fresh flowers in the vases and have the air-conditioner switched on a couple of hours before the Minister was due to arrive. Eeshran was as excited as he. Both had an early evening bath and got into fresh clothes. A bottle of Blue Label Johnnie Walker, two cut glasses, two bottles of soda and a silver bucket of ice-cubes were laid out on the table.

  The Minister’s car pulled up at exactly 7 p.m. Zora and his wife went out to receive him. The Minister carried a large bouquet of yellow gladioli in his hand. His orderly had a basket of red roses. ‘Behen Eeshran, these are for you,’ said the Minister handing her the bouquet. The orderly followed them indoors and placed the basket of roses on the table. Eeshran was overwhelmed by the gesture. ‘Mantriji, you should not have taken all this trouble. This is like your own home.’

  ‘Eeshranji, nothing can be good enough for a noble lady like you. You must have performed some very good deed in your previous life to have found a husband like Zora. Let me tell you, he is one in a million. You are the luckiest w
oman on earth.’

  Eeshran joined the palms of her hands and acknowledged, ‘It is all the great Guru’s kindness. Who are we but vermin crawling in the dirt.’

  There was a moment of silence. Zora turned to the Minister. ‘Sir, shall we do the Bismillah?’ he asked picking up the bottle of Scotch.

  ‘A very chhota one for me,’ replied the Minister. ‘I have many important files to go through tonight.’ Eeshran sensed it was time to leave them alone. ‘I will send some hot hot pakoras for you to enjoy with your drinks,’ she said and left.

  Zora handed the Minister his drink. They raised their glasses, clinked them: ‘Jai Hind.’

  The Minister did not waste any more time on preliminaries. ‘Zoraji, tomorrow there will be a few questions in the Rajya Sabha concerning my ministry. One of them is about money that building contractors gave engineers when you were chief engineer. I will place my replies on the table of the House. I think it would be good if you made a statement after supplementaries have been answered.’

  He handed Zora Singh a sheaf of pink papers with questions that would be raised in Parliament the next day. Zora glanced over them and was surprised to find one in particular. ‘Sir, the fellow who has put forward this question is from your own party.’

  The Minister gave him a broad smile. ‘There is a conspiracy to malign me so that the new Prime Minister drops me from the Cabinet. You know he is still wet behind the ears and listens to all kinds of gossip. They are saying that I’ve been taking huge bribes, that I keep mistresses and drink heavily.’

  ‘That is absolute bakwaas—rubbish!’ responded Zora Singh. ‘I’ll make mincemeat of the bastard.’

  The Minister smiled and patted Zora on the back. ‘Not with anger but with cold facts and logic. Carry the House with you. And let that Prime Minister know whom he can trust and who are the rats that surround him.’ Saying this, he got up. ‘That’s all I came to see you about.’

  ‘Won’t you have another one for the road? Eeshran, Mantriji is leaving. Come say Sat Sri Akaal to him.’

  Eeshran hobbled in. ‘Mantriji, when will you turn your blessed feet towards our humble abode again?’

  ‘Behen Eeshran, whenever you order. I have only this one true friend in the world,’ he replied as he stepped into his car.

  *

  Zora did not have his second drink nor eat much at dinner. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Eeshran. ‘You seem to have lost your appetite; did Mantriji say something that upset you?’

  ‘I have to speak in Parliament tomorrow. Some fellow has put forward questions insinuating that there was corruption in my department when I was chief engineer. I have to keep the facts ready. I’ll have to look up old files and may be late. Before you go to bed ring up my steno and tell him to be here by 8 a.m. There may be a lot of typing to do.’

  ‘May Wahguru place burning coals on the fellow’s tongue!’ said Eeshran. ‘You have done nothing to be ashamed of. Let the world know what you have done for your country. Don’t worry too much, Wahguru is with you.’ She quoted a line from the scripture: ‘When You are on my side, what fear need I have?’

  Zora went to his study and pulled out old files of newspaper clippings about building projects he had been involved in from the time of the British and since Independence. He flagged some and made notes he could use later. It was well after midnight when he joined Eeshran in the bedroom. She was still awake reading her prayer book. She shut it and said, ‘You must sleep. One should be fresh and in good shape to take on one’s enemies in battle.’ Zora was too worked up to sleep soundly. In his mind he kept rehearsing the speech he had to deliver and hearing the applause that would follow.

  Zora was up early next morning, had his bath, recited the morning prayer and read the day’s message—vaak—from the Granth Sahib. It augured well: ‘Whatever I ask of the Lord He gives the same in full measure.’

  When the steno arrived, he asked him to take photocopies of the clippings he had selected. He rehearsed his speech again in subdued tones and was ready for the day. He arrived in Parliament House fifteen minutes before the question hour, signed his name in the attendance register, shook a few hands and took the seat allotted to him. He placed the files he had brought in front of him.

  The hall began to fill up, the opposition benches faster than those of the ruling party. Zora looked up: the press and visitors’ galleries were full. So was the officials’ gallery where senior civil servants sat armed with files to brief ministers whenever required. Slowly the ministers began to arrive with their orderlies carrying their briefcases. And finally, the Prime Minister, who came to the Rajya Sabha only when questions concerning the departments under him had to be answered. He took his seat next to Zora’s Minister.

  As the clock struck eleven, the heralds announced the entry of the Vice President who was also Speaker of the House. The members rose and bowed before him. Without further ado he announced, ‘Question number one.’ The member who had put down the question stood up and repeated: ‘Question number one’. The Minister concerned answered it as well as the supplementaries. The second question was dealt with in similar fashion. It was the third question that concerned Zora. The Minister stood up and replied, ‘Papers have been laid on the table of the House.’ A dozen hands from the opposition went up. Zora also put up his hand. The Speaker made a note of the names. The supplementaries were answered laconically by the Minister: ‘Yes Sir, no Sir, does not arise.’ The man who had raised the question was clearly very sheepish about having raised a hornet’s nest and embarrassed the ruling party to which he belonged. The Speaker asked the leader of the opposition to ask his question. But instead of framing his question, the leader of the opposition launched into an angry rant about corruption in the Public Works Department and brandished copies of newspapers carrying stories of large sums being paid by building contractors to government officials to have shoddy work passed and approved. There were loud cries of ‘Shame, shame; resign!’ The Speaker interrupted the leader of the opposition. ‘Please raise your question and do not make a speech.’ But his order fell on deaf ears. ‘We want a full debate on the subject,’ someone shouted. ‘Crores of rupees of the public have been squandered in bribes. Bridges with substandard material have collapsed. Roads laid by the department are full of potholes after every monsoon and have to be repaired.’ The volley of angry complaints turned into a tirade.

  The Speaker stood up and said, ‘Please, this is question hour. If you wanted a full debate you should have asked for it.’ He called out the name of the third questioner. ‘Please, all others sit down.’

  But the ministers refused to take their seats. Instead, they stormed into the well of the House waving sheets of paper and shouting, ‘Shame! Shame!’ in chorus. On his scribbling pad Zora put down the word ‘Hijda’ with a smug smile. The Speaker sat down holding his head in his hands. After a while he stood up and said, ‘If leaders of opposition parties have no questions, I will go on to the next member. Yes, Mr Zora Singh, raise your question.’

  Zora stood up and waited for members of the opposition to return to their seats. He waited till the House was completely quiet. The Rajya Sabha was silent when he began, ‘Mr Speaker Sir, I crave your indulgence in allowing me to make a few preliminary remarks before I come to the question under discussion. As you know Sir, most of the accusations made against the Ministry of Public Works deal with construction works carried out during the time when I was chief engineer of the PWD. The accusations being made against the Honourable Minister are in fact directed at me. If there has been any wrong-doing, do not accuse the Honourable Minister who is as pure as the purest gold, but hold me responsible.’

  ‘Indeed! Indeed! You can see all the purest gold on the Minister’s fingers,’ someone shouted out from the opposition benches. There was a burst of laughter. The Prime Minister had a broad smile on his face. The Minister held up both his hands to let everyone see the gold rings he wore. The House was in good humour.

  Zora let the laught
er die out and resumed his speech. ‘Mr Speaker Sir, and fellow members of this august House, look up and around you. This building was erected before most of you were born. Is there anything wrong with it? Has a single brick or stone come loose because it was fixed in with substandard material? Your humble servant was part of the team that built it.’

  There was the thumping of tables and cries of ‘Hear! Hear!’

  Zora continued. ‘The two Secretariats, the Rashtrapati Bhavan, the Prime Minister’s residence and the residences of the ministers of his Cabinet, the bungalows and flats you occupy as MPs, these were all constructed during my tenure. Have any of these buildings collapsed because sub-standard material was used in constructing them? Here I have a sheaf of clippings praising their design and construction. Your humble servant had a hand in their building.’

  There was another round of thumping and cries of ‘Hear! Hear!’

  ‘What is your question?’ demanded the leader of the opposition.

  ‘That, sir, is not for you to ask but the Speaker,’ retorted Zora.

  The Speaker intervened. ‘Mr Zora Singh, you have made your point. If you have no question to ask, please wind up your speech.’

  This was not good enough for Zora. ‘Sir, my question is not directed to the Minister but to members of the opposition. If you gentlemen wanted information, authentic information of the working of the PWD, you should have come to me and not danced into the well of the House like a bunch of hijdas.’

  All hell broke loose. The opposition rose as one and demanded an apology. ‘Sir, he has insulted us by calling us eunuchs. It is unparliamentary and should be struck off the record!’